


Eventide

by IanMuyrray



Series: Muy's OtherOutlanderTales [2]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 13:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15389742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: @bonniebird17 said: Jenny and Ian first kissCanon compliant. Fireflies don’t live in Scotland; including them was a creative choice on my part. Outlander is a fictional story about time travelers-- suspend your disbelief once more and enjoy a twinkling firefly kiss





	Eventide

 

**_Lallybroch, 1737_  
**

Jenny sat in the drawing room, a book open on her lap. She stared blankly at it, listening intently to the conversation in the next room. Running a finger over the corner of the book, feeling the softness of the well-worn pages, she tried to decipher the low rumble of male voices carrying through the walls. Her deep concentration was occasionally punctuated by the _crack_ and _pop_ of the fireplace.

Ian’s commission papers had arrived by messenger today. A boy had ridden into the yard, kicking up clouds of late summer dust with his horse as Jenny tended the wash. After settling the boy in the kitchen with a bannock and some ale for a rest, she passed the note to Ian, who she found gathering hay in a paddock for the cows. He wiped sweat away from his brow with a sweep of his forearm and thanked her, opening the message as she left to return to her chores.

Jenny hadn’t thought much of it. It wasn’t unusual for missives to be delivered in haste to Lallybroch. Not common, but not unusual.

This missive, however--Jenny remembered coming inside to begin supper, seeing Ian and his father with Da in the hallway, their heads close together in serious conversation, voices low. Something had changed.

She had kept quiet at dinner, noticing how the men around her fidgeted, sighed, and poked at their meals. She could have asked, _would_ have, even, if she hadn’t already guessed the news. How she dreaded it.

The directive meant Ian must leave Lallybroch. Farewell hung suspended in the air, imposing its heavy weight over their meal.

Her gaze traveled from the corner of her book to a spot on the rug, her ears catching on one word: “mercenary.”

Ian was leaving to be a soldier. To France, most likely; the French Royal Army was known for pressing Scotsmen into their ranks as foreign soldiers, and Scotsmen were known for heeding the call, the promise of reliable food and good coin too tempting to pass up.

“It’s likely a permanent position, Ian,” came her father’s voice, clearer than before. “Ye’ll likely no’ come back once ye go.”

Jenny clutched her book, feeling that sentence echo hollowly inside her ribcage.

Jamie had already left Lallybroch to foster with the Mackenzies and now Ian was leaving, too. She turned her face to the clock on the mantle, the ticking of the second hand both comforting and unsettling.

Jenny breathed deep, trying to tell herself she was only sorry the three of them had grown up. Jamie was safe, probably being spoiled by his uncles, training to be a proper laird. She knew from his letters that he was learning clan politics and how to fight. Ian, though… as a mercenary, he would be schooled in war, violence, even death.  

And after, if he survived long enough to have an _after_ , where would he settle? In France?

She leaned back in her chair, her mind wandering, no longer listening to the men next door. She could see it now, Ian settling somewhere in Normandy--France becoming his adopted land through the brotherhood of battle-- buying a homestead and tending cows in a pasture-- marrying a tall, fair-haired French woman-- gifting her a satin dress of bird-patterned indigo on their wedding anniversary-- even raising a large family of blonde children, teaching them their letters-- French and English, Gaelic forgotten.

Jenny scowled into the fireplace, flames licking upwards.

Jamie and Ian had been set upon their divergent paths, had been given their respective duties. And what of her path?

Marriage, motherhood: both things she yearned for, and yet the shadow of her unknown husband loomed over her, casting the rest of her life in a stark light. As she began to entertain the question of _which_ man might end up her husband, her throat constricted, and she forced a swallow.

The scrape of chairs in the other room interrupted her thoughts, and she heard the mumble of Ian’s father, John. Footsteps came into the adjacent hallway.

Next came Ian’s reply. Oh god, what was he saying? She pricked her ear in his direction, to no avail.

The men guffawed, and Jenny heard the retreat of her father up the stairs, the creak of the front door before it latched behind the departing Murrays.

She let out a breath, standing to return her book to the shelf. She rolled her shoulders, looking to relieve tension before bending down to tend to the fire.

Ian had entered the room, very quietly, startling her as she went to leave, her thick skirts swishing about her ankles.

“My goodness, I’d thought ye’d left,” she breathed, a hand over her heart to calm its excited beating. He wore his coat and boots, as if to leave, and his hair was pulled back, accentuating his kindhearted features.

“No’ yet,” he said. “Take a walk with me?”

It was an early September evening, the sky’s light rich and deep, bathing Lallybroch’s yard and paddock in a film of blue. Lightning bugs twinkled around in the tall grasses, lighting here, extinguishing there, their lights off tempo to their quick-beating wings. In the distance Jenny could hear a muffled, yet riotous, chorus of crickets and toads.

They came to a spot near the paddock fence. Jenny leaned back against it, tucking her hair behind her ear and staring past Ian’s shoulder, up at the dark window of the Laird’s room. Her father had gone to bed.

“So, ye’re leavin’,” she stated after Ian said nothing. She crossed her arms over her chest.

He cleared his throat. “Aye, I am,” he replied, his voice less sure than his words.

Her eyes snapped to his. “When?”

“Tomorrow. I leave for France at first light.”

“So soon,” Jenny muttered, refusing to show how deeply this upset her.

He shifted on his feet, his face marked by uncertainty, maybe fear. Even in the low light, she saw him swallow hard.

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed, leaving her place on the fence and stepping toward him.

He was looking away from her, down at his feet, and his brow was creased with worry.  

Unthinking, she reached for him, cupping his cheeks to turn his face to look at her. There was the coarseness of day old stubble, the hard, angular bone of his jaw. She knew she should drop her hands, but she didn’t, continuing to hold him as he faced her.

He had sprouted from an entirely different tree than the men in her family. Jamie was tall and broad shouldered, solid as a tree trunk, red-haired and blue eyed; her father was shorter, but still big, his coloring blacker than night. Their physiques echoed those of Viking warriors, brawny and Thorian. Ian, however, was thin, his body’s power and muscle much more subdued, discreet, lingering below the surface. His hair was brown, his aura golden and warm, cozy like a winter fire. He towered over her; if she were to step forward, her forehead might barely reach his shoulder.

“Janet,” he exhaled, rolling his face into the palm of her hand.

He peeled her white hands away from his face and held them, studied them, seeing them glow pale in twilight. She waited, focusing on keeping her balance, watching the lightning bugs sprinkle the air surrounding them.

Carefully, slowly, and with a level of uncertainty, he turned their hands so their palms would touch, interlaced their fingers. Avoiding her questioning look, he watched as they touched; she noticed how perfectly the knuckles of their bones aligned.

He pulled her towards him then, and she stumbled briefly, her slipper catching on uneven earth. Righting her, he unclasped their interlocked hands to catch her waist. She gripped his chest, the linen of his clothing soft and yielding.

She looked to him, and he to her.

“Ian,” she sighed, and he kissed her, his name disappearing into the air.

His lips were slow and soft, delicate. She trembled, but stepped closer, closing the gap between them, feeling his heart race against her own chest, his hands big and wide against the small of her back.

Her awareness of the night faded away. There was only Ian, the smell of candle wax and faint pot roast, lips tasting of salt. She pressed herself against him, parting her lips to flick a tongue against his. She ached and burned, his touch a salve.

But underneath it all was a sense of sadness, fear.

Jenny could scarcely breathe, her knees going limp. He pulled away slightly, his grip remaining firm.

“What is it?” he asked.

She sniffed, then buried her face in his chest as she held him close. “You’re leaving,” she said, repeating herself from a moment ago, syllables soft and sad this time.

He held her tight, cheek pressed to the top of her head, a hand in her hair. “I know,” he sighed in resignation.

Then he turned her face to his, cupped her cheeks, kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her mouth.

“Wait for me, aye? I’ll be back.”

Her heart skittered. She was here and he was here; she wanted him and he wanted her.

She nodded. “I’ll wait,” she whispered, her hands tangling in his hair, loosening strands from where he had drawn it back, pulling him back down to her.


End file.
